


i'm comin' up only to hold you under

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, not a Good Fic, this is me venting late at night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-07 04:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7701715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They drag him out of his cell by his hair and toss him into a room full of identical guards. </p><p>(they do not only break him with words)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i'm actually??? pretty rlly hesitant to post this one, for obvious reasons. 
> 
> tbh i was lowkey thinking about making a whole new account just for this one fic bc i'm??? v v worried about it???? i've never rlly written smth like this before??? it's not super explicit compared to some of the shit i've seen, but it's still def there and def described, so pls do read the tags and pls pls be safe my dude

 

 

They drag him out of his cell by his hair and toss him into a room full of identical guards. He lands hard on his knees, the force of the impact stuttering up his weak, tired body, and he glares up and them with all the hatred he can gather. He feels off-balance, like he does whenever he tries to carry himself now—the stump of his missing arm has a phantom weight he can't get used to, won't get used to. 

One of the guards steps up, looks down at him, considering, and reaches out to grip Bucky's chin and tilt his head up with a cold hand (his face is blurred around the edges, the light is too bright, he feels suffocated).

"You have a pretty mouth," the man says, accent rolling off his tongue, smiling around the words in a way that makes his skin crawl.

Bucky grins—grimaces—the one he uses when he wants to piss people off.

 "I've been told," he drawls, voice all gravelly, throat all sore, "Unfortunately, you're gonna hafta find somewhere else to shove your dick, 'cause if you put it in my _mouth_ , I will _bite it off_."

He hears sniggers from the bodies around him, and the man in front of him raises an eyebrow, like he didn't expect him to talk back. (Bucky doesn't know why he didn't expect it, because he always talks back, even if no one listens to the one-armed American prisoner they keep strapping down and sticking needles in. He always talks back.)

"Will you?" the man says. 

Bucky's heart pounds; his head lolls to the side and he says: "Try me."

The man does.

Unzips his uniform pants and yanks Bucky's head back and pushes in between his lips—already half-hard, _Jesus_ , like Bucky's whole 'tired as fuck, drugged half out of his mind thing' turns him on. He feels a wave of disgust, uses that thought as fuel and does just what he promised—and he bites _hard_.

It's nasty as fuck, but the man screams and shoves him back and it's worth it, he thinks viciously, spitting blood all over the floor, it's fucking worth it.

The man screeches something in German, and he has to hold onto that—it's worth it, it's worth it—as the room erupts into chaos.

He fights, he really does, as best he can with one arm and a body that doesn't want to listen to him. He shoves and punches and kicks at the faceless uniforms; a hand catches his ankle and _twists_ —the bone and his body. He feels the snap and falls awkwardly onto his arm as he's forced onto his stomach.

And he fights— _god_ , he fights, writhing and twisting and yelling, a litany of _get off don't touch me fuck you fuck you don't touch me don't_ —

A boot on his back, on his head, the world spins and his nose breaks against the concrete floor; all he can smell is iron and sweat and all he can hear is the sound of his racing heart and the ringing in his ears, and he _fights_. His hips are yanked up and his pants are yanked down and his hand scrabbles for some kind of purchase, clawing and scraping against the floor— _no_ , he thinks, he says maybe, he doesn't know, doesn't know anything, _no no no please no god no—_

(he was prepared for a lot when the doors of his cell creaked open today, he was prepared for the Table or the fire in his veins or the cold or the needles, but this. but this. he was not prepared for _this_ , and he feels like an idiot for being so naïve)

A scream tears itself halfway out of his throat when the first man shoves into him.

He grits his teeth against it, chokes on his breath and bites his tongue to keep from screaming again because _fuck_ , it feels like he's being _torn in half,_ ripped apart from the inside out, broken up and rearranged, but there's no way in hell he's gonna scream in front of these people. He digs his forehead into the ground and squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing (his lungs aren't working his throat feels like fucking sandpaper—focus, focus, ignore the hands on his hips and the noises and the feet on his back and the—blood, _god,_ it's _blood_ —staining his thighs; he's on fire, everything is noise, everything is screaming nothing is real everything _hurts everything—_ focus).

And if he just—if he just—focuses on—on the inhale and exhale and inhale exhale in and out and in and out, blinks the heat out of his eyes because he is _not_ crying in front of these fucking people, he kind of. Checks out. Goes somewhere else. Somewhere not here, somewhere worlds—universes—away, and it's summertime, a lazy afternoon, warm, but not too warm—the window is open and there's this little breeze that sweeps through his hair and his legs are slotted through the bars of the rails on the fire escape, and he glances over, and there's Steve, with a pencil in his skinny little artist fingers as he sketches the city skyline in all it's lazy, summertime glory. And he has that look on his face, the one he gets when he's focused, when he's lost himself in his work, sunburned nose all scrunched up, mouth pressed into a vaguely serious line, and then he raises his head and looks over at Bucky and grins, and it's just—this little asshole, with his blue eyes and his smile like the fucking sun and his stupid will to take on the world, and _god,_ Bucky loves him, loves him so fucking much, with everything he has, and he's suddenly so fucking glad Steve's here, where he belongs, on the little fire escape of their shitty little apartment smack in the middle of Brooklyn, worlds away from the little concrete room with the guards and the screaming and the sandpaper. 

He doesn't wanna go back to it, back to the room and the cell and the table and the chair that takes bits and pieces of his head and blends it all up and leaves him reeling. He wants to—he just wants—he just wants to stay in the summer and watch Steve shade the buildings and maybe kiss him a little and listen to the radio when it gets dark. He doesn't wanna go to war and he doesn't wanna fall off that train and he _doesn't wanna—_

 

every guard takes a little piece of him when they take their turn, but no one goes anywhere near his mouth again.

 

They take him back to the cell when they're done with him, toss him through the doors like a toy they've outgrown. 

He lies there for a very long time, staring at the ceiling and staring through it and staring at nothing at all.

Somehow, eventually, he finds it in himself to roll onto his side and curl up. He aches.

He aches.

His eyes burn, and he pretends it's the summer wind blowing on the fire escape.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, they toss a newspaper into his cell, and tell him that Captain America is dead.
> 
> (they do not only break his body; they barely have to try to break his heart)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom clap the sound of my bad week prompting me to come back w more of this Bad
> 
> (lil bit of death ideation, as a warning)

 

 

One day, they toss a newspaper into his cell, and tell him that Captain America is dead.

When he croaks out: _you’re lying, he wouldn’t go out like that, he’s coming for me,_ they throw another, different one with an even bolder headline, and they say: _if you want, we can show you the news footage too,_ all casual, like they’re talking about the weather.

When he says nothing, stares at the papers sprawled on the floor in front of him, black and white and terrible, the cell door swings shut and they leave him alone with this discovery.

It takes him a lifetime to pick one of them up, and even longer to read the words, and longer still to comprehend them. 

(He rips them up as much as he can with one arm and two legs and a ringing head and he throws the pieces across the room and yells at nothing and ignores the tears he knows are on their way, and refuses to believe it.)

 

Captain America, they remind him everyday, is dead.

_Where is your Captain America now?_ they ask, dragging him out of his cell. 

_At the bottom of the ocean_ , they answer themselves when he shakes them off and spits at them and ends up on the floor with a boot hovering over his neck. _He’s not coming for you_ , they tell him when they kick, when they yank his hair, when they pull the restraints tight around his body and strap him down. _He was never coming for you,_ they say when he struggles, when his breath comes in gasps because it’s too damn tight and digging into his goddamn lungs.

(And that’s not true, he knows, Steve was coming for him, he would never have left him alone in a place like this—but Steve has always been self-sacrificing to a fault, and it’s _just fucking like him_ to fly a plane into the goddamn ocean to save the world. But he was going to come for him, he was going to come for Bucky, he _was—_ he just couldn’t, in the end, but he would have.)

_(steve thought you were dead,_ some part of him whispers, _he watched you fall and fall and fall and he thought you were dead, he couldn’t search for a dead man in the middle of a war why would he have come for a dead man maybe he was never going to—_ )

Where is your Captain America now? they ask. 

_Far away from here,_ he thinks, _thank god._ (Death, he thinks, is probably better than this, in the end. Even though Steve deserved to live more than anyone, Jesus _Christ.)_

(Where is your Captain America now? they ask, a hand in his hair when they dare to try and use his mouth again. _Not here to see this_ , he thinks as he clamps his jaw shut for the second time and doesn’t let go until he is forced off, _because Steve won’t see anything ever again_ , he thinks when his arm twists in a way it really shouldn’t, and the horrible thought draws out something like laugh or maybe more of a sob and the blood in his mouth tastes like both a victory and a defeat. 

They should’ve learned from last time, he thinks vaguely. James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t fucking bluff.)

Where is your Captain America now? they ask when he is screaming on the Table ( _you are to be the new fist of Hydra_ , Zola says, _but first, we must fix you up a little_ ), agony in whatever is left of his left arm like _nothing_ he’s ever felt before ( _still not a fan of needles? your loss_ , Zola says, _you’ll be wishing for anesthesia in moment_ ) and the sounds are almost as bad, the hand that forces his head to the side and says: _look_ ( _feel free to scream, Sergeant_ ). 

_I was never waiting for Captain America,_ he thinks somewhere, throat sore, fucking agony, reeling and delirious, _I was waiting for Steve. I was waiting for summer—it’s always so fucking cold here and I was waiting for summer and the sunset and Steve._

Where is your Captain America now? they ask. 

But worse, they ask: Where is your Steve Rogers? 

_In the summer,_ he thinks. He hopes. Maybe it’s warm in heaven, because that’s surely where Steve ended up. He is not here, he will never be here, but Bucky hopes he is somewhere warm.

 

(And later. And later. After he blacks out from the pain and wakes up on the floor of his cell with bandages around the bleeding stump of what used to be his shoulder, after he crawls into the corner and props himself up against the wall, loses the will to blink away the heat that gathers in his eyes, he.

He brings his only shaking hand to his forehead, and crosses himself (and he has never been a particularly religious man, for all the sermons and lectures he’s sat through with Steve by his side, but), _God,_ he whispers into his fist, _please; please, please, please let me die, let me die, please let me die please, god, please—_

he doesn’t wanna stay here in the cold anymore, he’s tired of hurting, he’s _exhausted_ and he _doesn’t wanna stay stay in the fucking cold,_ he just wants to—he wants to go be in the summer, with Steve, so so badly, and maybe—maybe that is why God doesn’t answer.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i rlly do love him i swear i rlly do
> 
> ((a single comment can rlly save a life my man)))


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